


sit awake until the wild feelings leave

by suganii (feints)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Comfort, Domestic Boyfriends, Established Relationship, Freeform, HQ Rarepair Week 2021, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Post-Timeskip, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:56:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28577121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feints/pseuds/suganii
Summary: Again, Akaashi’s fingers find his, lacing them together and tucking them into his coat pocket. Keeping both their hearts safe.For HQ Rarepair Week 2021, Days 1 to 5.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Shirabu Kenjirou
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	sit awake until the wild feelings leave

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nicini](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nicini/gifts).



> for nicini!
> 
> as you know, we talked about shiraaka quite a while back, and recently they sort of just planted a corner in my mind and wouldn't leave, so. here we are! i hope you enjoy this little shiraaka offering.
> 
> also for hq rarepair week 2021, for days 1-5, prompts: domestic, reunion, travel, time skip and comfort. enjoy!

_Tap tap tap tap, tap tap tap tap._

Shirabu awakes to the soft sounds of fingers typing on the keyboard. Akaashi’s face is haloed in a blue glow, his fingers expertly dancing across the keys, no doubt racing against another deadline to finish. He looks up when Shirabu clears his throat.

“Come back to bed already, Keiji-san. That can wait.”

Akaashi shakes his head. “I’m almost done,” he begins to say.

Shirabu cuts him off with a groan, hauling himself up.

He’d taken his shirt off sometime during the night. The heat dances across his already bare skin.

Akaashi observes him silently, one eyebrow arched, his mouth still open, formed around a delicate “o”.

Shirabu crosses his arms over his chest. “What? It’s hot,” he says, feeling flustered. Normally, Akaashi is the shy one. He thinks it must be the heat getting to his head. The air-conditioning unit had broken down in their apartment for a few days now, and it’s slowly been driving him mad.

“Would you just come here already?” he mutters, aware of the red on his cheeks. At least, he thinks, it’s probably a little too dark for Akaashi to see.

“Mmmm,” Akaashi hums.

Finally, he moves from his table, bringing his laptop along to Shirabu’s chagrin and settling in under the covers beside Shirabu.

There’s suddenly a distance between them that Shirabu doesn’t know how to cross, one that hums just under his skin. Maybe it’s the wakefulness – he still hasn’t adjusted to being with Akaashi like this. _Together_ , sharing an apartment. _Together,_ sharing a bed.

Just two weeks ago, they’d only made a habit of running into each other sometimes. Now, with Akaashi beside him, the faint smell of sweat drifting toward Shirabu, he feels ill at ease.

And Akaashi, being Akaashi, notices.

“Would you like to hear a story, Kenjirou-san?” Akaashi asks faintly, lips still tilted upwards, face still turned toward his screen.

Shirabu scowls. “Will telling me finally get you to go back to sleep?”

Akaashi laughs, _laughs_. Shirabu’s scowl deepens further when Akaashi nods his head. “Sure,” he says.

“I guess that’s alright, then,” he says, frown easing.

Their shoulders brush as Akaashi sighs, closing his laptop with a soft click and depositing it under their bed. In the weighted darkness, Shirabu’s eyes have not yet adjusted, but he can feel Akaashi’s gaze pinning him to the headboard.

Their shoulders brush again as Akaashi moves to make himself more comfortable, and Shirabu lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

He slides down, laying his head on the pillow properly and pulling their whisper-thin blankets up to his chin. The air is expectant with the sound of his exhales.

_In, out. In, out._

Shirabu waits. He traces shadows on the ceiling, occasionally lit up with the sounds of cars passing through below, or by one of their neighbours with the pretty fairy lights flashing across the street.

Akaashi sighs, and it’s long and drawn out this time, weighing into the air like a burden being released. “It’s just,” he says, “it’s been so hot lately.”

Shirabu merely snorts but lets him continue. Akaashi’s a lot like he is – he takes a while to gather his thoughts, to spin them into something he wants the world to hear. Except that Akaashi rarely meant to hurt others; Shirabu doesn’t either, most of the time. It just somehow usually comes out that way.

Akaashi says, “I’ve been working on Udai-san’s last chapter.”

“I know.”

“…Somehow all of it together reminded me of Murakami Haruki’s story, the one about the fire.” He takes a breath, and when he speaks next, his voice is pitched low, gravelly. _“The flames accept all things in silence, drink them in, understand and forgive.”_

Shirabu lets the words sink into the air for a heartbeat.

“Mmm,” Shirabu says. “I don’t think we’re in danger of our apartment being set on fire, Keiji-san.”

“ _Yet_.”

Shirabu allows a mean smile to curve his lips. “Yet.” He fidgets under the covers, finally turning on his side to face Akaashi.

“Is that all you were going to say?” he asks, when Akaashi doesn’t respond. Soft snores are all that greet him in reply.

 _Well._ Shirabu shakes his head.

Unfortunately, Shirabu’s head is churning, too full of thoughts now for him to sleep. With nothing to occupy him, he returns to the words Akaashi had recited. Was he trying to describe how he saw them? Their current situation?

 _Why that story, Keiji-san?_ It sounds beautiful and sad, and he doesn’t think that’s what they are. What would Akaashi have to forgive him for? Is it something he is asking of Shirabu?

This is why Shirabu was never into poetry, or prose. Too often they’re riddles to Shirabu, with no one correct answer. He likes direct answers. He likes solving things knowing there’s a definite end.

He turns to face Akaashi once more. His eyes have adjusted to the darkness by now, and he can just make out how Akaashi’s face is softer in sleep, the wrinkles in his face and in his brow smoothing out. Tufts of hair tumble down his forehead, black and curling at the ends. Shirabu wants to reach out and tuck the unruly curls behind his ear.

He shuts his eyes instead.

He opens them a minute later when something nudges against his pinky. Akaashi, seeking warmth. Shirabu knows this routine; later a pinky will become a hand, and a hand will become a shoulder, and a shoulder will become Akaashi’s upper body, attaching itself firmly to Shirabu. It’s only happened twice before, but Akaashi is surprisingly tactile like that.

Shirabu resigns himself to becoming a body pillow for the night. Surprisingly, the thought brings him a burst of fondness, and he dozes off after that, entwining his pinky with Akaashi’s as he drifts.

* * *

Sometimes, they can go without seeing each other for days. Shirabu is busy preparing for graduation, busy in between shifts at the Tokyo Hospital and finishing his thesis. Akaashi, meanwhile, regularly pulls all-nighters to meet his publishing magazine’s strict deadlines.

Sometimes, they see each other in passing. Akaashi arrives back at their apartment only to run into Shirabu rushing out the door, and vice versa. There’s barely an exchange of hellos and goodbyes between them then, maybe a hug and then the other is sent on their way.

And sometimes, Shirabu comes home to see Akaashi passed out on their huge queen-sized mattress. He doesn’t usually have the will or the energy to wake him when it happens, merely going through the motions of changing into comfortable clothing, brushing his teeth, and then collapsing into bed beside him. He’s asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow, and he’s dead to the world until morning. Usually, Akaashi is gone by the time he wakes up.

Today, Shirabu wakes to the smell of coffee being brewed, inhaling traces of cocoa into his lungs. His lips twitch up involuntarily, and he immediately makes to smooth them down. He pads into the kitchen to see Akaashi sitting by the counter, a steaming mug already in his hands, another mug waiting beside him.

“Good morning, Kenjirou-san,” Akaashi says softly, lips curling in a welcoming smile.

Shirabu just raises a brow, taking a seat beside him. He ignores the way his heart stutters, for just a beat, when Akaashi pushes the mug a little closer toward him.

“Three cream, no sugar,” Akaashi adds. “I remembered this time.”

Shirabu snorts. “Three-in-ones are a _menace._ ”

“So you’ve said,” Akaashi says, but it prompts a laugh out of him, so Shirabu counts it as a win.

Shirabu takes a sip out of his mug, ignoring the slightly acrid stench on his tongue. “You’re in a good mood today,” he notes, eyes lingering on Akaashi’s smile. 

“What?” he asks suspiciously when Akaashi doesn’t immediately reply.

“Nothing.”

“ _Keiji—_ ”

“I would just like to warn you. You might have to pay up very soon, Kenjirou-san,” Akaashi says. His whole being is practically lit up with glee, and Shirabu wrecks his mind for one reason it could be. It can’t just be that he has a day off—Akaashi, like him, doesn’t handle free time too well—and it can’t just be that he gets to spend time with Shirabu. That can be arranged—not easily, but he knows Shirabu will make time if he has to.

 _Pay up_ , Akaashi said. Shirabu’s eyes fall on the calendar pinned up by magnets on their fridge. He glances back toward Akaashi, and surely enough, Akaashi is grinning into his phone.

“No.” Shirabu’s breath leaves him in a huff.

“ _Yes_ ,” Akaashi corrects, his eyes lighting up like sparks, catching a fire in Shirabu’s chest. “Seems like someone’s about to lose their bet, _Kenjirou-san_.”

“Shut. Up,” Shirabu hisses furiously, unlocking his phone and frantically checking the Premier League website. His heart plunges down to his gut when he sees the MSBY Jackals currently sitting second, their points to the Adlers almost tied.

He contemplates dropping his phone into his own steaming mug. “I hate everything,” he mutters.

Akaashi’s hand settles over his own, coaxing his fingers open and interlocking their fingers together. “There, there,” he soothes, irritating Shirabu further. “Would you still like to see their game?”

Shirabu hates—mostly, not _really_ —that his first instinct is to kiss Akaashi’s smile right off his lips. His eyes take in Akaashi’s relaxed shoulders, the way his glasses are hanging off of the tip of his nose. The state of his hair, looking like a small bird had made its nest in it. The way that when Akaashi leans in to kiss him anyway, Shirabu can still taste his morning breath, mingling with his own.

“Shower first,” he groans.

Akaashi plants a soft kiss on his nose, chuckling when Shirabu immediately wrinkles it up. He is going to be scrubbing _that_ part of his face first, he knows.

But when Akaashi tugs him into their bathroom, linking their pinkies, Shirabu follows him without a word.

* * *

Two hours later, Shirabu can’t believe he’s let Akaashi talk him into this. He’s nearly dead on his feet as Akaashi leads him to the train, and as soon as he and Akaashi have settled onto their seats, he pillows his head on Akaashi’s shoulder _—_ retaliation, he thinks pettily, he _knows_ just how ticklish Akaashi finds it there, and he’ll have hell to pay if he nudges Shirabu off _—_ he’s lulled back into sleep.

He dreams, strangely enough, of bonfires. He and Akaashi are passing a bottle of _sake_ back and forth, flames of fire crackling merrily into the night. Heat licks its way up the shoulder of Shirabu’s exposed arm, burning him, but when he opens his mouth to scream, Akaashi leans down to place a kiss, and suddenly the fire is doused. Smoke wafts up in wisps, he smells cinder and the heady remains of wood. Akaashi’s lips are red, so red.

He nudges Shirabu, and this time, Shirabu flinches away, feeling hot hands imprint themselves on his skin. Akaashi nudges him again. “Kenjirou-san,” he says. His mouths are sizzling coals.

“Kenjirou-san.”

Shirabu wakes with a grunt, slamming his head onto Akaashi’s chin. Akaashi groans, pushing him off his shoulder with a cough.

“We’re here, Kenjirou-san,” he says, giving Shirabu a baleful stare, one hand holding his bruised chin.

Shirabu blinks away the last vestiges of his dream behind his eyelashes, lowering his gaze in mortification. “I’m so sorry, Keiji,” he mutters, standing up and leading Akaashi off the train slowly.

“You should be,” he says, but his fingers curl firmer around Shirabu’s.

In response, Shirabu presses more insistently against Akaashi’s side.

He leads them to a combini, ducking inside and getting Akaashi an iced bottled tea for his trouble.

Akaashi’s fingers curl over his again as soon as he comes back, his other hand placing the bottle gently under his jaw. The action exposes the long column of Akaashi’s neck, unblemished, unmarked, pure porcelain.

Shirabu blushes.

“Did you really miss me that much?” he tries to tease, holding up their joined hands briefly as he does.

Akaashi just grips his hand tighter. “Yes, I have.”

He glances at Shirabu again, before sighing. “I just wanted a quiet day with my boyfriend. Then, _this_.”

Shirabu bristles, and the feeling is more familiar, better than the _fondness_ he feels these days is threatening to overwhelm him. “Hey, you’re the one who wanted to go out. I wouldn’t have minded staying home.”

Akaashi sighs again. “Yeah, me neither. But how often do we get to travel like this? Besides,” he stares pointedly at Shirabu, “ _you’re_ the one who agreed.”

Shirabu buries his face deeper into his scarf with a scowl. He doesn’t bother looking up as Akaashi tugs on him to let go and opens the bottle for a drink. He just stares at his free hand, now curled up into a fist.

The human heart, he learnt as a child, is roughly the size of a clenched fist. Akaashi’s fist, Akaashi’s heart, could easily swallow Shirabu’s whole. It’s a terrifying thought, but what’s more unsettling still is Shirabu finds he might not mind.

“Here,” Akaashi nudges him, gently offering up the bottle to Shirabu.

Shirabu’s fist unclenches. “You want us to share drinks?” he asks.

Akaashi rolls his eyes. “I thought that was the point of you getting your favourite milk tea brand for me rather than mine.”

Shirabu snorts. “ _Kirin_ is better than _Pokka_ , admit it.”

“Never.”

He takes a sip before bottling it again as they walk, and again, Akaashi’s fingers find his, lacing them together and tucking them into his coat pocket. Keeping both their hearts safe.

The movement is so practiced, so routine. _Oh_ , Shirabu thinks, suddenly humbled with new understanding. _Oh, okay. Fuck._

* * *

The game is loud, louder than Shirabu remembers. It’s been a while since he’s been to a volleyball match and just spectated. The crowds are closer here, the battles at the net more intense, and Shirabu wants to be swept up in it, let it carry him somewhere far, far away from the prickling awareness that tells him Akaashi sitting exactly two inches away from him, leaning forward, head on his hands as he peers at the game below. 

He looks ahead. Somewhere out there in the crowd, he knows Tendou-san and Reon-san are cheering, Tendou probably with banners and headbands and other Ushijima merch. For his part, Shirabu’s just wearing a shirt—signed by Ushijima-san himself of course—and he’d painted half his face white at the entrance, Akaashi taking a brush to mark the tops of his eyebrows with blue and gold.

Ushijima’s certainly not who he’s thinking of now. His heart is roaring in his chest, tiny invisible hands reaching out to strangle Shirabu, making him struggle for breath. Akaashi’s presence is a brand, and Shirabu’s eyes are drawn to him, over and over like a moth to the flame.

Akaashi doesn’t even _know_ what he’s doing to him. Shirabu forces his fists to unclench.

 _Focus_ , he thinks. Beads of sweat trickle down his forehead, but he wrenches his gaze to the match below just as Ushijima-san wrestles a point from the Jackals. He looks like a vision in white, a conquering god. This is the last match of the season before the V League teams face off with the Challenger Leagues. If the Jackals win this one, they’ll make first.

Akaashi claps his hands cheerfully when Bokuto wrings back the next point. He’s taken out the merch too—Bokuto Beam cap, the bracelets. The obnoxious black and grey foam finger.

It strangely feels like deja vu to Shirabu now. The first time he’d really seen Akaashi, it had been with a similar lump in his throat, caught up in the throes of an emotion he couldn’t yet put a name to, only recognised it in himself. Long, long ago, once, he’d locked eyes with Akaashi across the net, only it hadn’t been Akaashi then. It had just been another setter.

He recognises what it is now.

Devotion.

Akaashi Keiji is _devotion_. His breath falters on his next exhale.

It doesn’t matter, he decides. It can wait.

The next point Ushijima scores, Shirabu makes sure to yell ferociously, holding up his “Ushijima Rox” banner as he does. A few people around him jump back in surprise, but he ignores them. He smirks in challenge at Akaashi who is barely holding in a smile.

He’s not about to be outdone by his own boyfriend. Even if it means they’re enemies until the whistle blows.

Shirabu lets his old idol fill the ranges of his vision, and blocks out the thought of anything else.

(Almost nothing else. Beside him, Akaashi stretches out a pinky for him to hold, a tether, and Shirabu is too much of a sap to do anything other than link it right back.)

* * *

_Tap tap tap tap, tap tap tap tap_.

Shirabu rubs at his eyelids, blinking sleep-heavy eyes at the ceiling. Akaashi is curled up against him, snoring softly. Rain strums on the windows, beating a solemn staccato against the glass and casting strange dancing shadows on the walls.

It looks a little like a sick puppet show to Shirabu, if he’s honest. He shakes his head.

Akaashi’s arms tighten around him just as he moves to get up, tugging him back with considerable force. Shirabu lets him, falling easily back into Akaashi’s warmth—welcome now that spring is still on its way—and enjoying the wiry strength there. He presses his ear against Akaashi’s chest with a contented hum, listening to his heart drum the slow rhythm of sleep.

Every person’s heartbeat is unique. Sometimes, well in the privacy of his own mind, Shirabu can admit to himself that the one he likes best is Akaashi Keiji’s. It beats steadily, stedfastly, safe land. Shirabu doesn’t need to chase after him, not when he’s right there.

He’s been chasing after things, people, places for a while. He’d like to hope Akaashi feels the same with him.

It’s frustrating that he doesn’t know how to ask. Shirabu hasn’t become any more adept at his feelings at twenty-four than he was at seventeen. It’s hard for him to even tell himself, out loud, that he has feelings for his own boyfriend.

Shirabu will just have to try to prove it, through his actions where his words are laden down with thoughts that tangle themselves up all too often in his head. He’ll work until the day when he can say the words with his own two lips.

Until then.

**Author's Note:**

> highkey pls read this [thread](https://twitter.com/Nicini02/status/1298235133644996608?s=20) by nicini for the tea on why shiraaka deserves more love.


End file.
